Just gotta say– if you had told me in 2007 when I was nursing my first baby at o’dark thirty every night that one day I’d be able to read! in the dark! with one hand! (and shop for baby gear and household paraphernalia, and take pictures and video, and did I mention READ IN THE DARK!), I would have asked you if I should look for my cape in that there phone booth. Smartphones are the most awesome nursing accessory ever.
Half a year, Miry, my dearie, equally distant from the sun as we were the day you were born (plus a few days, at this point). One hundred eighty-even days of you in our lives, here with us. No more waiting in the wings, but here with us finally, having decided for yourself that it was time for you to join our family.
With you, our family is balanced, even. Two and two. I’m not surprised at all that you are a Libra. All that balance. You are mellow, round, sweet, even.
You’re also a whole heap of fun! You squawk. But you also growl. You smile easily, but then return to seriousness. You bring your hands together in front of you, tap tap, and light up when we say, “clap, clap.”
My sweet baby cakes, sunshine, smiley buttons, sweetie pie, growly bear with the drool and the raspberries and the chub, I just want to zerbert you until you laugh. To pump your legs so you “run” in place while giggling. To cuddle you while you still fit on my lap.
You think kicking the water and now splashing with your hands is fabulous, and have started to lean toward the bathtub as soon as you realize the water is running. You love yourself a good bath–until you don’t, all of a sudden, and it’s time to whisk you out of the tub, struggle your diaper, onesie, pajamas, and zipper gown onto you, and nurse you. Just you and I in the dark bedroom. That’s our quiet time.
The moment I saw you outside my body, I knew you. But I knew you–know you–as a mystery, too. I still know so little of you. More and more of you shines out as you have transitioned from not-yet-fully-of-this-world newborn to full-on baby, beginning to cling to me like a baby monkey when I put you on my hip. You feel so familiar on your own, and look so familiar with your sister that I have flashbacks to six years ago with her. Yet, I know we’ve only seen the tip of the iceberg and there’s so much more of your personality to emerge.
You, you are your own joy. You are a joy to us.
Times are changing around here. Your awesome, kind, loving grandparents have been watching you on workdays, commuting early and from Leesburg to do so. They have other grandkids waiting for their turns, so you’ll start daycare next week. The 6-month class should be fun for you– you love looking in the mirror at that one smiley baby. Just imagine how fun it will be to have other babies to play with.
Not that those other babies will ever be able to compare to your favorite playmate at home, that awesome sister of yours. Your mutual adoration club fills our time together with lots of giggles, squawks, raspberries, songs, and belly laughs. She thinks you get more fun every day, and is thrilled that you’ve started to share a room with her now that your sleep pattern’s pretty solid. Before you, she often asked us why she had to sleep alone when your dad and I got to share a room. Now, she has you. You will never know life without a sister; she had six years as an only child and, in that time, did not realize what she was missing– until we told her she was going to be a big sister and she realized that she was missing, because she didn’t yet have you.
And now she does.
And you have her.
And so do we.
I’m so glad.